This morning, I rushed into work, frazzled and out of breath. My husband started a new job, (a new and out of town job) and my babysitter was late. I forgot Coulter’s lunch and we couldn’t find his library book. With no book his car would have to move from green to yellow (the horrors!) so his frustration level was understandable; also understandable was the subtle hint that this was somehow my fault since I had obviously stashed it somewhere in preparation for the realtor’s first visit. I mean heaven forbid that potential buyers know that Coulter likes reading about snakes. They might think we’re part of some weird religious cult that worships with snakes. Anyway, late from the book; late from the lunch; late from the fact that our sitter was late; oh, and I had to vote. So, very uncharacteristically I rushed into work, frazzled and out of breath.
I only mention all of the above to give you an idea of my frame of mind when I finally settled in at the computer. Sitting down and trying to quickly catch up on emails before we began rehearsals, I couldn’t help but overhear one of the therapists next door complaining about something. Oh wait, she was complaining about me. I listened closer. (Of course, it’s not that hard to hear since both of our doors are wide open and she’s just across the hall.) First I heard mumblings of re-scheduling students and then a little louder and most clearly, I heard, “Ugh. I just hate this time of year with all this Christmas CRAP! Myra Katherine…..yada yada….more crap….yada yada…..Myra Katherine……” I could go on, but I suspect you get the picture. She’s not too excited about the Christmas program. Now, let me take a little detour and remind you that when I started this blog I told you that instead of making resolutions for the year, I had chosen a word. My word for the year was illumination. So please accept my sincerest of apologies for having to read icky, crude language such as Christmas crap (which just happens to be one of my least favorite words, like, ever) in a blog about little lights and illumination!
Continuing on…..I listened to the entire conversation and then I marched (well, marched may be too harsh; let's just say I walked quickly and with attitude) across the hall and made my presence known. Busted! Now, this is so not a mid-western thing to do. Mid-westerners are generally uber polite and avoid conflict. Most of my Midwestern friends would have just pretended not to hear. But I’m not a Midwesterner. I’m a Southerner and I come from a long line of tell-it-like-it-is, “Steel Magnolias” and I was not about to turn the other cheek (I mean technically, I think that’s what were supposed to do, but whatever, we’re also supposed to correct in love, and I'm sure I was very loving.) I didn’t say much, but I said enough to make her uncomfortable; I said enough to make her office-mate uncomfortable; in fact, I made her office-mate so uncomfortable that she later wrote me a note thanking me for all the work I do with children and how much she appreciates music. Uh, yeah. Uncomfortable.
In her defense, she is not alone in her opinions regarding Christmas programs; specifically Christmas programs at Children’s Home Society. For 2 months out of the year we disrupt a very protected schedule and we shove children (and their teachers) out (as in W-A-Y out) of their comfort zones. New schedules, less supervision, less class time, etc. Furthermore on the day of the event, everyone is completely and totally stressed out. The teachers are worried that their kids will melt-down; kids are worried they’ll be embarrassed or worse, that no-one will show up to watch them be embarrassed; therapist are stressed that we are causing children to be stressed and well, it’s safe to say that I’m the only one, or at least one of a very few, who gathers any enjoyment out of this day at all, and certainly out of the days and weeks leading up to said event.
But sitting high up on my pedestal, judging with contempt and being all righteous and horrified was pretty short lived. Later in the morning thoughts of how many times I too have complained, or talked and gossiped about my friends or colleagues came pouring into my head (darn that Holy Spirit getting into my head!) The only difference is that I’m usually smart enough to close the door. But am I smart enough to talk out of ear shot of my children? Am I thoughtful enough to consider letting it go and not saying it at all. Am I able to change the subject or steer it in another direction when necessary? Am I brave enough? Am I kind enough? As Emma Claire would say, “praaahbleee not!”
The therapist came to see me later in the day and apologized. As we talked about the extra stress of the holidays and the emotions that hang on like baggage for some, I was reminded of my friend Julie. Julie is a student at CHS whose father is also her grandfather. She drives her teachers crazy; she screams; she cries; she doesn’t do her work and yet I love Julie. She sings for me and I know that she’s in there somewhere trying so desperately to be heard. One day we were listening to The Four Seasons by Vivaldi. "Winter" was playing. I turned to one of the teacher assistants and complained, “you know the time of year when it’s freezing cold and everyone’s miserable.” Julie overheard me (as children always do) and she said, “Oh no! I love winter. That’s when we get presents!” One of her classmates corrected her, “Julie. We get presents two times a year. At Christmas and on our birthday.” We get presents two times a year. Gulp.
That day in class, listening to Mr. Vivaldi, I was a lot like my therapist friend; absorbed in and concerned only about myself and how winter and or the Christmas schedule affects me. The truth is that winter comes from God and it comes for a reason. Regardless of the cold and the snow and the wind, winter is a time for rejoicing; it is a time for celebrating the birth of a Savior. It is a time of remembering the greatest Gift of all and it is a time to celebrate with singing and playing and dancing and throwing schedules and comfort zones out the window and into that cold, blustery wind.
With the work day behind me, I rushed out of the office, frazzled and out of breath; much in the same way that I had arrived. I was anxious to hold my children and thankful for the reminder that our words matter. My hope for this Christmas season and time of Thanksgiving is that I can remain focused on what matters for my children, my students and my family; that I will be thankful and filled with joy overflowing; that I will be gracious in recognizing when someone is having a bad day and be quick to forgive instead of quick to judge; that I will remember my hope is in Him whom we celebrate; that I will remember the promise of Christmas and forget (and I quote) all the other cr*p!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
"Running on cushy shoes or feeding a child for a year......hmmmm"
I love our church, or perhaps I should say, as part of One Body; One Church; I love the group of people that assemble together on east 26th street each Sunday. In the 5or so years that we’ve attended, I’ve been challenged, inspired, convicted, nurtured and ministered to. I’m also deeply grateful for the children’s ministry which does the same. On the days that I manage to apply even a smidgen of that week’s teaching, I am a better mother and teacher. This morning was no exception. Today our leaders presented us with an opportunity to partner with the food bank of South Dakota and be a “Backpack Buddy.” For $135 you can buy a backpack that will be filled with food each week for an under-privildged child to take home on the weekends, giving them much needed nourshiment on the days in which little or no food may be available. And, because the food is tucked privately away in a regular ol’ backpack, no-one is the wiser that this child needs food. Each week in Sioux Falls alone, there are over 3000 backpacks filled and 1000 more are needed. (fyi, The Backpack Buddy program was started by a nurse in Arkansas….a humble little state full of lots of great leaders and great ideas….I’m just sayin’)
While presenting this opportunity for giving, our pastor made the point that our children inherit things they don’t derserve; they didn’t earn. No 1st grader deserves to be hungry. No 3rd grader should have to choose between eating himself or feeding his younger siblings. We talk a lot about starving nations and certainly people around the world need our help, but the truth is we have hungry people right in our own communities; in fact, in our own backyard.
When I was growing up in that humble state of Arkansas, I didn’t really know any poor people; well I knew poor people, but not 'going without food' poor (I also didn’t know any republicans until I got to college but that’s a story for another blog!) We didn’t have food kitchens or food banks or anything of that sort. Neighbors took care of each other; church families stood in the gap for their brothers and sisters. I wish someone smarter than I would tell me if the need for food assistance programs comes from a greater need and more poverty in the last 20 years or is it because we lost our sense of village and started looking out for ourselves instead of taking care of others?
Anyway, as our pastor spoke, my mind began to wander (much like it did just now as I remembered random childhood memories full of democrats and wealthy people) and I recalled an Oprah show that highlighted her work in Africa (please don’t mention this to my family because we “technically” boycotted her after she endorsed then Senator Obama over then Senator Clinton for President,) but anyway, she was speaking to critics as to why she chose to build a school in Africa instead of say, Chicago, and she made the point that poverty there is different than poverty here. We at least have a chance. She continued with, “Say what you will about the American educational system — it does work. ... If you are a child in the United States, you can get an education. ... I became so frustrated with visiting inner-city schools that I just stopped going. The sense that you need to learn just isn't there. ... If you ask the kids what they want or need, they will say an iPod, sneakers, or some money. In South Africa, they don't ask for money or toys. They ask for uniforms so they can go to school.”
I understand (well sorta) what she was saying and yet it’s a dangerous attitude that gives people the idea that’s o.k. to quit; that’s it’s o.k. to stop advocating for change in America; and that just because a child being educated in the inner-city of Chicago, who having sown from the seeds planted by their parents, wants an iPod instead of a uniform, that we should give up and move on to a more appreciative nation. I’m sorry, but should we really expect children who have nothing to be grateful for their nothingness?
This past week on facebook, several friends were posting a letter supposedly written to President Obama by a doctor whose patient was, (gasp) abusing “the system.” He went on about how health care reform isn’t needed, rather patient reform, and I apologize to him and my readers because while it was all over my news feed the past couple of days, I can’t find it right now so my version may be a little off, but you get idea; we shouldn’t really help the poor because they aren’t helping themselves; furthermore we shouldn’t help the poor because they are abusing the system. I get it. I know people who drive brand new cars; cars that I will never own or even think about owning and they’re on government assistance programs. I know people whose monthly income more than doubles our own and yet somehow have hospital bills waived and electricity bills erased. I understand the frustration, but God has called us to be the “hands and feet” of Christ not the judgement keepers. It doesn’t matter if you or I consider them “deserving,” it only matters that their children are inheriting poverty and ignorance that they didn’t earn. It only matters that their children are reaping a harvest they didn’t plant.
And of all people, we as Christians should understand this concept. Do some of these people probably not deserve the help? Sure, but then again, I didn’t do anything to deserve my family either. I didn’t deserve educated, Christian parents who sacrificed on all levels to see me succeed. I didn’t earn; I inherited. And it’s the same with our Heavenly Father. Do I deserve His grace; his forgivness; his mercy? Nope and yet he freely gives. Again and again and again.
When I started this blog, I committed to myself to tell the truth or at least my truth, so please hear me when I say I see the irony….judging others for judging others and yet that’s not my intention. My intention is to judge myself. I didn’t really want to write that check this morning, but I did. And yet what’s worse is that I spent almost the same amount, $125, just last night on a pair of running shoes. So, while I can totally justify my need for good running shoes and will continue to buy them until someone converts me to the new barefoot running method (not!), the truth is if I had waited a couple of months or even a couple of weeks, I could have been a backpack buddy for 2 children. Hmmm, running on cushy soles or feeding a child; a child, as I was reminded this morning, who has been stamped with the image of Christ.
"Change my heart, O God
Make it ever true.
Change my heart, O God
May I be like You."
(Eddie Espanosa, I think!)
While presenting this opportunity for giving, our pastor made the point that our children inherit things they don’t derserve; they didn’t earn. No 1st grader deserves to be hungry. No 3rd grader should have to choose between eating himself or feeding his younger siblings. We talk a lot about starving nations and certainly people around the world need our help, but the truth is we have hungry people right in our own communities; in fact, in our own backyard.
When I was growing up in that humble state of Arkansas, I didn’t really know any poor people; well I knew poor people, but not 'going without food' poor (I also didn’t know any republicans until I got to college but that’s a story for another blog!) We didn’t have food kitchens or food banks or anything of that sort. Neighbors took care of each other; church families stood in the gap for their brothers and sisters. I wish someone smarter than I would tell me if the need for food assistance programs comes from a greater need and more poverty in the last 20 years or is it because we lost our sense of village and started looking out for ourselves instead of taking care of others?
Anyway, as our pastor spoke, my mind began to wander (much like it did just now as I remembered random childhood memories full of democrats and wealthy people) and I recalled an Oprah show that highlighted her work in Africa (please don’t mention this to my family because we “technically” boycotted her after she endorsed then Senator Obama over then Senator Clinton for President,) but anyway, she was speaking to critics as to why she chose to build a school in Africa instead of say, Chicago, and she made the point that poverty there is different than poverty here. We at least have a chance. She continued with, “Say what you will about the American educational system — it does work. ... If you are a child in the United States, you can get an education. ... I became so frustrated with visiting inner-city schools that I just stopped going. The sense that you need to learn just isn't there. ... If you ask the kids what they want or need, they will say an iPod, sneakers, or some money. In South Africa, they don't ask for money or toys. They ask for uniforms so they can go to school.”
I understand (well sorta) what she was saying and yet it’s a dangerous attitude that gives people the idea that’s o.k. to quit; that’s it’s o.k. to stop advocating for change in America; and that just because a child being educated in the inner-city of Chicago, who having sown from the seeds planted by their parents, wants an iPod instead of a uniform, that we should give up and move on to a more appreciative nation. I’m sorry, but should we really expect children who have nothing to be grateful for their nothingness?
This past week on facebook, several friends were posting a letter supposedly written to President Obama by a doctor whose patient was, (gasp) abusing “the system.” He went on about how health care reform isn’t needed, rather patient reform, and I apologize to him and my readers because while it was all over my news feed the past couple of days, I can’t find it right now so my version may be a little off, but you get idea; we shouldn’t really help the poor because they aren’t helping themselves; furthermore we shouldn’t help the poor because they are abusing the system. I get it. I know people who drive brand new cars; cars that I will never own or even think about owning and they’re on government assistance programs. I know people whose monthly income more than doubles our own and yet somehow have hospital bills waived and electricity bills erased. I understand the frustration, but God has called us to be the “hands and feet” of Christ not the judgement keepers. It doesn’t matter if you or I consider them “deserving,” it only matters that their children are inheriting poverty and ignorance that they didn’t earn. It only matters that their children are reaping a harvest they didn’t plant.
And of all people, we as Christians should understand this concept. Do some of these people probably not deserve the help? Sure, but then again, I didn’t do anything to deserve my family either. I didn’t deserve educated, Christian parents who sacrificed on all levels to see me succeed. I didn’t earn; I inherited. And it’s the same with our Heavenly Father. Do I deserve His grace; his forgivness; his mercy? Nope and yet he freely gives. Again and again and again.
When I started this blog, I committed to myself to tell the truth or at least my truth, so please hear me when I say I see the irony….judging others for judging others and yet that’s not my intention. My intention is to judge myself. I didn’t really want to write that check this morning, but I did. And yet what’s worse is that I spent almost the same amount, $125, just last night on a pair of running shoes. So, while I can totally justify my need for good running shoes and will continue to buy them until someone converts me to the new barefoot running method (not!), the truth is if I had waited a couple of months or even a couple of weeks, I could have been a backpack buddy for 2 children. Hmmm, running on cushy soles or feeding a child; a child, as I was reminded this morning, who has been stamped with the image of Christ.
"Change my heart, O God
Make it ever true.
Change my heart, O God
May I be like You."
(Eddie Espanosa, I think!)
Friday, September 10, 2010
"Love God. Love Others." Pastor Doug
This past Monday was our quarterly “G’pa Ed and G’ma Mary home visit.” I’m ashamed to admit that we go visit these precious friends only a few times a year, but right now I don’t have to wallow in that guilt because this week we went. We took supper; we took groceries; we took precious children who bring joy, yada yada. We went. We loved God; we loved on others.
It always starts with the “front lawn.”Coulter, Emma Claire and I make our way through lawn; gated and adorned with old washers full of flowers faded and dying from the summer heat or the early fall, I’m not sure which, a picnic table which Coulter tells me wasn’t there last time, and various other “yard art” and we let ourselves in. Ed and Mary are in their familiar spots and I find the only chair that couldn’t also be used as a motor vehicle. They are mostly home-bound so the tiny house is filled with hanging creations made from communion cups, beads, coffee cans and glitter. Coulter and Emma Claire are fascinated but are most interested in the candy jar. “God please bless that food, for I have no idea how long it’s been there. Amen.”
After we’ve had our chocolate, Coulter finds a big bag of toys and starts playing with what appears to be old (and I’m talking vintage here) Mc Donald’s toys and Emma Claire chases around their 14 year old dog trying to “pet you.” And then it begins:
“Well, you know my cancer’s back. But I’m not worried and I told Ed not to worry and I don’t want you to worry. God is not making up a bed for me just yet. Now, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months. I tell Ed you’re a mom and you’re just too busy.”
“Yes ma’am. We are pretty busy. Coulter has started school and well, it’s a whole new world.”
“Well, I guess you’ve heard they’re demolishing the house next door.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“My goodness. It was all over the news. See, Ed and I were still asleep because we don’t sleep too good and, well long story short (only it wasn’t short at all!) those Indians next door got drunk again and he took off in his car and started driving into the house. Three times he backed up and rammed it again. Drunker than a skunk and his girlfriend and her son were in the house, too. Anyway, they’re holding him down at lock-up and Jerry next door bought that house and he’s gonna turn it into a parking lot for Irene. And that’s a good thing, too, ‘cause she hasn’t had anywhere to park and now, maybe we’ll get some peace and quiet from those damn Indians.”
Now, as you can imagine, I’m at a loss for words. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Oh, well, sounds like your Native American neighbors enjoy the occasional party drink?” I mean come on! My 5 and 2 year old are hearing all of this and all I need is for Coulter to share this story during center time at Kindergarten.
“Coulter,” I say, trying desparately to change the subject “tell G’pa Ed and G’ma Mary about school.” “Uhm, yeah. I go to kindergarten now.” That’s it. That’s all the contribution that he could come up with.
Now I could go on. I could tell you about Mary’s son who got drunk on her whiskey at age 12. I could tell you about her son who still likes to get drunk. I could tell you about “that damn tree,” that fell over at her sisters’s house; I could go on and on, but all you really need to know about Ed and Mary is that almost 10 years ago, just days away from entering hospice Mary received a successful bone-marrow transplant . They are faith-filled people and they love the Lord with all of their heart. They love me and my children and it goes without saying that Mary is a walking, breathing, living miracle of God.
After what I thought was a respectable amount of time and after I was sure we’d be discussing what it means to be drunk for the next several days, I politely explained that we needed to be going.Later that day, I was visiting with my mom and she shared with me a devotion which spoke to how we as parents spend so much of our time teaching our children how to be self-sufficient and how to take care of themselves, when, in fact, we should be teaching them to care for others. She encouraged me that our visits to Ed and Mary were being faithful to God’s call to love others, and I’m just gonna go with that because that’s a much nicer lesson than the one about what happens when you drink too much and decide to drive your car into your girlfriend’s home.
A few days later Coulter was practicing his memory verse for sunday school and, remembering one from a few weeks back, Emma Claire chimed in with “Trust in Lorrrrrd, aaaaall your heart.” After savoring the sweetness of the moment, I couldn’t help but think again of Ed and Mary. They’ve had 10 years worth of cancer news to lose faith; to get angry; to give up and yet they don’t. Of all the stories that I hope my children will forget (racial slurs, questionable language, etc.) it’s the story of faith that I hope will stick with them.
You could be like Mary, hearing cancer for the umpteenth time this week, or like my buddy, Marr, in the prime of his life, hearing it for the first time, along with other words like transplant patient. You could be looking for the blessing of a job; a spouse; a baby. Or, you could just be like Coulter trying to understand why someone would call you a “stupid face,” after all, “I’m not a stupid face, am I mom?” Regardless, the lesson of Ed and Mary, the lesson that sweet Emma Claire has already put to memory, is to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart.” (Proverbs 3:5) At the end of the day, that’s the only lesson that really matters.
It always starts with the “front lawn.”Coulter, Emma Claire and I make our way through lawn; gated and adorned with old washers full of flowers faded and dying from the summer heat or the early fall, I’m not sure which, a picnic table which Coulter tells me wasn’t there last time, and various other “yard art” and we let ourselves in. Ed and Mary are in their familiar spots and I find the only chair that couldn’t also be used as a motor vehicle. They are mostly home-bound so the tiny house is filled with hanging creations made from communion cups, beads, coffee cans and glitter. Coulter and Emma Claire are fascinated but are most interested in the candy jar. “God please bless that food, for I have no idea how long it’s been there. Amen.”
After we’ve had our chocolate, Coulter finds a big bag of toys and starts playing with what appears to be old (and I’m talking vintage here) Mc Donald’s toys and Emma Claire chases around their 14 year old dog trying to “pet you.” And then it begins:
“Well, you know my cancer’s back. But I’m not worried and I told Ed not to worry and I don’t want you to worry. God is not making up a bed for me just yet. Now, where have you been? We haven’t seen you in months. I tell Ed you’re a mom and you’re just too busy.”
“Yes ma’am. We are pretty busy. Coulter has started school and well, it’s a whole new world.”
“Well, I guess you’ve heard they’re demolishing the house next door.”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
“My goodness. It was all over the news. See, Ed and I were still asleep because we don’t sleep too good and, well long story short (only it wasn’t short at all!) those Indians next door got drunk again and he took off in his car and started driving into the house. Three times he backed up and rammed it again. Drunker than a skunk and his girlfriend and her son were in the house, too. Anyway, they’re holding him down at lock-up and Jerry next door bought that house and he’s gonna turn it into a parking lot for Irene. And that’s a good thing, too, ‘cause she hasn’t had anywhere to park and now, maybe we’ll get some peace and quiet from those damn Indians.”
Now, as you can imagine, I’m at a loss for words. I mean, what am I supposed to say? “Oh, well, sounds like your Native American neighbors enjoy the occasional party drink?” I mean come on! My 5 and 2 year old are hearing all of this and all I need is for Coulter to share this story during center time at Kindergarten.
“Coulter,” I say, trying desparately to change the subject “tell G’pa Ed and G’ma Mary about school.” “Uhm, yeah. I go to kindergarten now.” That’s it. That’s all the contribution that he could come up with.
Now I could go on. I could tell you about Mary’s son who got drunk on her whiskey at age 12. I could tell you about her son who still likes to get drunk. I could tell you about “that damn tree,” that fell over at her sisters’s house; I could go on and on, but all you really need to know about Ed and Mary is that almost 10 years ago, just days away from entering hospice Mary received a successful bone-marrow transplant . They are faith-filled people and they love the Lord with all of their heart. They love me and my children and it goes without saying that Mary is a walking, breathing, living miracle of God.
After what I thought was a respectable amount of time and after I was sure we’d be discussing what it means to be drunk for the next several days, I politely explained that we needed to be going.Later that day, I was visiting with my mom and she shared with me a devotion which spoke to how we as parents spend so much of our time teaching our children how to be self-sufficient and how to take care of themselves, when, in fact, we should be teaching them to care for others. She encouraged me that our visits to Ed and Mary were being faithful to God’s call to love others, and I’m just gonna go with that because that’s a much nicer lesson than the one about what happens when you drink too much and decide to drive your car into your girlfriend’s home.
A few days later Coulter was practicing his memory verse for sunday school and, remembering one from a few weeks back, Emma Claire chimed in with “Trust in Lorrrrrd, aaaaall your heart.” After savoring the sweetness of the moment, I couldn’t help but think again of Ed and Mary. They’ve had 10 years worth of cancer news to lose faith; to get angry; to give up and yet they don’t. Of all the stories that I hope my children will forget (racial slurs, questionable language, etc.) it’s the story of faith that I hope will stick with them.
You could be like Mary, hearing cancer for the umpteenth time this week, or like my buddy, Marr, in the prime of his life, hearing it for the first time, along with other words like transplant patient. You could be looking for the blessing of a job; a spouse; a baby. Or, you could just be like Coulter trying to understand why someone would call you a “stupid face,” after all, “I’m not a stupid face, am I mom?” Regardless, the lesson of Ed and Mary, the lesson that sweet Emma Claire has already put to memory, is to “Trust in the Lord with all your heart.” (Proverbs 3:5) At the end of the day, that’s the only lesson that really matters.
Friday, August 20, 2010
"Lord Jesus,Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Help me! Help me! Help me!" Anne Lamott
One of my very favorite authors, Anne Lamott, says in her book “Traveling Mercies” that she has two simple prayers that she prays most of the time. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” and “Help me! Help me! Help me!” I read that book about ten years ago and by read, I mean listened to in the car on tape on my way to Kansas City. I remember driving into the outskirts of Kansas City and realizing that I had absolutely no memory of Omaha. And while that may cause you concern about my driving, it should give you an idea of what a great book it really is.
Sometimes in the craziness that is ordinary life, it’s hard to verbalize and articulate just what we want to tell our great God, so I have, on many occasions, plagiarized Ms. Lamott with my own heartfelt Thank you/Help me prayer. This week has been such a time.
As you all know, as everyone knows by now, my son Coulter started Kindergarten this past Monday. My husband and I were determined to keep it upbeat. We drove into the parking lot without much fanfare, except for a photography session fit for a star, and I really felt fine. A little nervous like I could have gotten sick at any moment, but not teary. Hooray for me! Then, as we turned the corner to find his line, I saw approximately 400 other children all ready to pounce and I just burst into tears. “Help me! Help me! Help me!” I realize it seems selfish to be praying for myself at a time like this, but trust me when I tell you, he was fine. And for the record, I did pray for him, just not at that particular moment.
I’m not completely sure why this is so hard. I do know that throughout the day and week, very well meaning friends and family have encouraged me with different variations of the same chorus. (I wanted to say different verses; same chorus, but that doesn’t make sense…I’m going for a “2nd verse; same as the 1st” kind of idea.)
“At least you still have your baby at home.”
“At least you only had to take one.”
“At least you’re getting to send him to Kindergarten; my baby is going to High School.”
“He’ll be fine. This is what you’ve prepared him for.”
And yet some days you don’t want to be cheered up and told how blessed you are and how great and wonderful this all is. Some days you just want to cry!
For 10 years I have been completely absorbed in the world of early childhood. I know little ones. I know what they should be doing; what they’ll probably be doing and what they should never be doing. I know what’s “normal.” I know what’s expected. I spend my days trying to encourage other mothers who are new at the whole baby/toddler thing and try to equip them with tools that make parenting easier. I know how to be the parent of a little one, but now that we’re in school, I feel completely lost and know that we’ve moved firmly out of my comfort zone and into a whole new world; an alien world.
This week alone, we’ve received PTA volunteer information, classroom party/homeroom mother information, star of the week dates, a book order and a request for a classroom supply donation (actually the donation is to help our teacher buy sanitizing spray which I am, of course, ever so happy to do!) I learned (the embarrassing way) that you can’t actually ride your bike on school property and that it’s cooler to get a hot lunch than to bring your own. Really? My son who basically has a three-meal rotation for lunch all of a sudden thinks he’s going to eat hot lunch? On Wednesday the menu was tacos with lettuce and cheese, green beans, a banana and milk. If, and that’s a strong assumption, if Coulter were able to delicately remove all of the lettuce then he might eat the meat. That’s it. I’m not proud of this, but I am certain of this and I’m worried that he’s going to be hungry all afternoon. But, you know, “everyone” else gets a hot lunch so there you go.
I received a note from Mrs. Hilbrands yesterday. Evidently there was a blue form that needed to be turned in two days ago. Furthermore, I learned that water for lunch has to be different than the water they keep on their desk. There are snacks buckets and email lists and oh my gosh, Help me! Help me! Help me! On a more positive note, Mrs. Hilbrands also said in her message that Coulter was doing well and that we would be so proud of him. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
In addition to starting Kindergarten, the school where I work moved into a new building and we are starting a new Kindermusik semester. I’m so tired that I can barely formulate a sentence. So, I’ll just wrap this up with a few prayers:
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for Coulter’s kind, patient and loving teacher.
Help me! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for a safe, warm and stimulating educational environment for Coulter.
Help! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that Coulter is a bright, energetic, kind-hearted young boy.
Help me! Help me! Help me to remember that when his alien brother arrives….well you know….
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you to all my friends who have listened to my month long pity-party, but especially to our precious friend Nicole who never tried to talk me out of my sadness.
Help me! Help me! Help me to refrain from strangling the next person who talks to me about eagle’s wings and soaring and letting them fly. Seriously, I will do you bodily harm.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that he is ready. Help me! Help me! Help me to become so myself.
Sometimes in the craziness that is ordinary life, it’s hard to verbalize and articulate just what we want to tell our great God, so I have, on many occasions, plagiarized Ms. Lamott with my own heartfelt Thank you/Help me prayer. This week has been such a time.
As you all know, as everyone knows by now, my son Coulter started Kindergarten this past Monday. My husband and I were determined to keep it upbeat. We drove into the parking lot without much fanfare, except for a photography session fit for a star, and I really felt fine. A little nervous like I could have gotten sick at any moment, but not teary. Hooray for me! Then, as we turned the corner to find his line, I saw approximately 400 other children all ready to pounce and I just burst into tears. “Help me! Help me! Help me!” I realize it seems selfish to be praying for myself at a time like this, but trust me when I tell you, he was fine. And for the record, I did pray for him, just not at that particular moment.
I’m not completely sure why this is so hard. I do know that throughout the day and week, very well meaning friends and family have encouraged me with different variations of the same chorus. (I wanted to say different verses; same chorus, but that doesn’t make sense…I’m going for a “2nd verse; same as the 1st” kind of idea.)
“At least you still have your baby at home.”
“At least you only had to take one.”
“At least you’re getting to send him to Kindergarten; my baby is going to High School.”
“He’ll be fine. This is what you’ve prepared him for.”
And yet some days you don’t want to be cheered up and told how blessed you are and how great and wonderful this all is. Some days you just want to cry!
For 10 years I have been completely absorbed in the world of early childhood. I know little ones. I know what they should be doing; what they’ll probably be doing and what they should never be doing. I know what’s “normal.” I know what’s expected. I spend my days trying to encourage other mothers who are new at the whole baby/toddler thing and try to equip them with tools that make parenting easier. I know how to be the parent of a little one, but now that we’re in school, I feel completely lost and know that we’ve moved firmly out of my comfort zone and into a whole new world; an alien world.
This week alone, we’ve received PTA volunteer information, classroom party/homeroom mother information, star of the week dates, a book order and a request for a classroom supply donation (actually the donation is to help our teacher buy sanitizing spray which I am, of course, ever so happy to do!) I learned (the embarrassing way) that you can’t actually ride your bike on school property and that it’s cooler to get a hot lunch than to bring your own. Really? My son who basically has a three-meal rotation for lunch all of a sudden thinks he’s going to eat hot lunch? On Wednesday the menu was tacos with lettuce and cheese, green beans, a banana and milk. If, and that’s a strong assumption, if Coulter were able to delicately remove all of the lettuce then he might eat the meat. That’s it. I’m not proud of this, but I am certain of this and I’m worried that he’s going to be hungry all afternoon. But, you know, “everyone” else gets a hot lunch so there you go.
I received a note from Mrs. Hilbrands yesterday. Evidently there was a blue form that needed to be turned in two days ago. Furthermore, I learned that water for lunch has to be different than the water they keep on their desk. There are snacks buckets and email lists and oh my gosh, Help me! Help me! Help me! On a more positive note, Mrs. Hilbrands also said in her message that Coulter was doing well and that we would be so proud of him. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
In addition to starting Kindergarten, the school where I work moved into a new building and we are starting a new Kindermusik semester. I’m so tired that I can barely formulate a sentence. So, I’ll just wrap this up with a few prayers:
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for Coulter’s kind, patient and loving teacher.
Help me! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you for a safe, warm and stimulating educational environment for Coulter.
Help! Help me! Help me be a kind, patient and loving Mother to Coulter’s alien brother who arrives on the scene every afternoon about 4:00 p.m.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that Coulter is a bright, energetic, kind-hearted young boy.
Help me! Help me! Help me to remember that when his alien brother arrives….well you know….
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you to all my friends who have listened to my month long pity-party, but especially to our precious friend Nicole who never tried to talk me out of my sadness.
Help me! Help me! Help me to refrain from strangling the next person who talks to me about eagle’s wings and soaring and letting them fly. Seriously, I will do you bodily harm.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you that he is ready. Help me! Help me! Help me to become so myself.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
"It's not that I'm sending him across the world, it's that I'm sending him." Deb Gibson
Last night I dreamt (dreamed?) that I was on a playground surrounded by children when all of a sudden we were being attacked by wild animals. There were baby elephants, tigers, and lions. (Evidently this playground was in Africa.) I woke up exhausted from running and in a panic because instead of saving my child from these ferocious beasts, I ran like a scared little kitten to the safety of the school. To be honest, I’m really not sure how Coulter faired.
O.K., I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist or anything close, but you don’t have to be too smart to figure this one out. Coulter starts kindergarten on Monday and let me just say to all those would-be wild animals (even the baby elephant ones) who even think of trying to torment (or more to the point, corrupt) my sweet boy, this Mama Bear will not run. She will come after you. As a matter of fact, I have discovered a side street in which I can park my van and watch the children at recess. I just very well might become “that mother.”
Also last night, before the sleeping and the dreaming, I had a work event that finished a little before I had planned. Instead of going straight home I went for ice cream and drove to Coulter’s school where I sat in a swing, ate my ice cream filled with chocolate and cried my eyes out. After a few minutes, people began staring and I became worried that someone might call the police, so I politely threw the evidence of my indulgence and drove calmly home. I expected the children to already be asleep but as soon as I walked in I heard screams of “Mommyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Mommyyyyyyyyy!” As if that weren’t enough, I could also hear Coulter saying, “Dad, I actually think she wants Mom.”
While, I do truly love those rare times that I come home and the children are all nestled in and fast asleep, I love even more the nights that we snuggle together, read books, sing songs and say our prayers. I was secretly pleased that I was needed because I think at the root of all these kindergarten tears is this inner knowledge that while he still needs me....he will always need me……he won’t need me in the Emma Claire “Mommyyyyyyyyyy!” kind of way. It’s such a surreal experience and one that obviously almost all parents go through and yet it feels like surely no one else could be experiencing it in quite this same way. Even my own mother told me that she didn’t cry after dropping off my sister or me to kindergarten---only our younger brother. Uhm, gee thanks, Mom!
The truth is we’ve spent the past 5 years shielding, protecting, and nurturing. We’ve researched and paid top dollar for the best pre-school teachers in the city. We’ve had our “Pammy” so that he wouldn’t be exposed to the “elements” of day care, whatever that means. Basically, we’ve been in complete and total control. And now, in this crazy messed up society of ours, I’m just supposed to drop him off at school on Monday where he will begin to spend the better part of each day with total strangers. Strange grown-ups. Strange children. Strange custodians. Strange food. Strange parents. Strangers! Come to think of it, why are we teaching our children to be afraid of strangers? We seriously have to go back and revise the hammered home message of stranger/danger and I’ve got less than 48 hours in which to do so!
As I said,almost all parents go through this and for those that don’t it pretty much means they’ve decided to homeschool. I have lots of great, great friends who homeschool and do so successfully and yet I also know I could never do it. My friend Debi lives in Cameroon as a missionary with her husband and 5 children. Home schooling makes sense for her. My friend, Jenna, has children with health problems and severe allergies and it makes sense for her. I have friends who homeschool for religious and spiritual reasons and friends who are concerned about the quality of public education. But there is one more category that I never even thought of until now. I am here to tell you that parents are home schooling because they don’t want to send their children to kindergarten. I know this because as incapable as I am of homeschooling my children (much the same way that I would be incapable of having 5 children, much less moving them to Africa to minster to a dying nation;) even I have given it great thought over the past few weeks. And yet logic resurfaces from time to time and in the end I know we are "to be in the world and not of it;" in the end I know I will, with a joyful (albeit breaking) heart, take Coulter to kindergarten. I will smile and hug and encourage and will save my tears for the drive home.
Our dear friend, Deb, a gifted writer just sent her youngest son to college. She posted on facebook last week, “It’s not that I’m sending him around the world, it’s that I’m sending him.” Harvey Dunn Elementary is a mile from our home (and don’t forget about the secret street for spying) and yet it’s not that he’s going around the world or even across town; it’s that he’s going.
O.K., I’m no psychologist or psychiatrist or anything close, but you don’t have to be too smart to figure this one out. Coulter starts kindergarten on Monday and let me just say to all those would-be wild animals (even the baby elephant ones) who even think of trying to torment (or more to the point, corrupt) my sweet boy, this Mama Bear will not run. She will come after you. As a matter of fact, I have discovered a side street in which I can park my van and watch the children at recess. I just very well might become “that mother.”
Also last night, before the sleeping and the dreaming, I had a work event that finished a little before I had planned. Instead of going straight home I went for ice cream and drove to Coulter’s school where I sat in a swing, ate my ice cream filled with chocolate and cried my eyes out. After a few minutes, people began staring and I became worried that someone might call the police, so I politely threw the evidence of my indulgence and drove calmly home. I expected the children to already be asleep but as soon as I walked in I heard screams of “Mommyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy Mommyyyyyyyyy!” As if that weren’t enough, I could also hear Coulter saying, “Dad, I actually think she wants Mom.”
While, I do truly love those rare times that I come home and the children are all nestled in and fast asleep, I love even more the nights that we snuggle together, read books, sing songs and say our prayers. I was secretly pleased that I was needed because I think at the root of all these kindergarten tears is this inner knowledge that while he still needs me....he will always need me……he won’t need me in the Emma Claire “Mommyyyyyyyyyy!” kind of way. It’s such a surreal experience and one that obviously almost all parents go through and yet it feels like surely no one else could be experiencing it in quite this same way. Even my own mother told me that she didn’t cry after dropping off my sister or me to kindergarten---only our younger brother. Uhm, gee thanks, Mom!
The truth is we’ve spent the past 5 years shielding, protecting, and nurturing. We’ve researched and paid top dollar for the best pre-school teachers in the city. We’ve had our “Pammy” so that he wouldn’t be exposed to the “elements” of day care, whatever that means. Basically, we’ve been in complete and total control. And now, in this crazy messed up society of ours, I’m just supposed to drop him off at school on Monday where he will begin to spend the better part of each day with total strangers. Strange grown-ups. Strange children. Strange custodians. Strange food. Strange parents. Strangers! Come to think of it, why are we teaching our children to be afraid of strangers? We seriously have to go back and revise the hammered home message of stranger/danger and I’ve got less than 48 hours in which to do so!
As I said,almost all parents go through this and for those that don’t it pretty much means they’ve decided to homeschool. I have lots of great, great friends who homeschool and do so successfully and yet I also know I could never do it. My friend Debi lives in Cameroon as a missionary with her husband and 5 children. Home schooling makes sense for her. My friend, Jenna, has children with health problems and severe allergies and it makes sense for her. I have friends who homeschool for religious and spiritual reasons and friends who are concerned about the quality of public education. But there is one more category that I never even thought of until now. I am here to tell you that parents are home schooling because they don’t want to send their children to kindergarten. I know this because as incapable as I am of homeschooling my children (much the same way that I would be incapable of having 5 children, much less moving them to Africa to minster to a dying nation;) even I have given it great thought over the past few weeks. And yet logic resurfaces from time to time and in the end I know we are "to be in the world and not of it;" in the end I know I will, with a joyful (albeit breaking) heart, take Coulter to kindergarten. I will smile and hug and encourage and will save my tears for the drive home.
Our dear friend, Deb, a gifted writer just sent her youngest son to college. She posted on facebook last week, “It’s not that I’m sending him around the world, it’s that I’m sending him.” Harvey Dunn Elementary is a mile from our home (and don’t forget about the secret street for spying) and yet it’s not that he’s going around the world or even across town; it’s that he’s going.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Several weeks ago Coulter and I were making our way down the back steps that lead into our church. I like to go the back way because I can sneak Coulter into Sunday School without actually checking in. It’s not that I mind checking him in, it’s that I always forget my little card that they swipe and I don’t like having to admit that, once again, I have no card. I know it’s wrong, but I basically live under the assumption that there are certain rules that simply don’t apply to me and this is one of those rules. I also like going the back way because Coulter thinks it’s our super secret shortcut and for those few minutes on Sunday morning I feel like a really cool Mom for having figured out such a top-secret entrance!
On this particular Sunday, though, we were racing down the stairs when Coulter stopped with a jerk and said, “Mom! Look! It’s a robin’s egg.” I looked down and there lay a cracked (almost crushed) blue robin’s egg and my heart sank. “Oh Coulter, how sad.” “Ma-aaahmm,” Coulter replied with a voice oozing frustration, “It’s not sad. The baby bird cracked out and flew away. That’s what they’re supposed to do” Well, duh! Of course that’s what happened. Or at least that’s a much nicer ending to the story! When had I become such a realist? And what is a realist, anyway? It’s just a nice word for pessimist.
Baby bird, aside, I’ve always been an optimistic person and I come by it quite naturally. My parents were always glass half-full people. Come to think of it, they are more like glass totally full. Someone has cancer? It’s the “good” kind. I mean if you’re going to have cancer this is the kind you want. Someone lost their job? It’s a victory; now they can go out and have the job they really want. Someone gets busted for drugs? Praise the Lord, now maybe he will have a chance to turn his life around. This is the kind of optimism that I grew up with; an optimism grounded in faith and Biblical truths.
Once upon a time I’m sure that I, too, would have seen a baby bird flying around. Where was my child-like faith and heart bursting with optimism? My new pessimistic outlook came back to haunt me again last weekend at the starting line of a 10 mile run. At the time I signed up it seemed like a great idea. On the morning of the run, however, it seemed like a hazy drug-induced idea. What was I thinking? I hadn’t run more than 5 or 6 miles for the past 3 years and now all of a sudden I think I’m going to pull a 10? To further shake my confidence, there was a spandex-clad, perfectly fit woman next to me (seriously, how can anyone be that tan the 1st weekend in June. This is South Dakota!) Anyway, she mentioned that there were only 55 people signed up to run. Math might not be a strong area for me, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out those are some pretty high odds for coming in last. Usually there are hundreds and thousands of runners at these races and I enjoy the anonymity of it all. Well, not today. Today I knew several people; people from work, people from church; fast people, fit people, tan and beautiful people and I all I could think about was coming in last.
I was so consumed with coming in last that at mile 3 ½ I began to count the runners on their way back. 30, 32, 45…. Yep, I’m gonna be last. Now, in my heart, I know it doesn’t matter whether I came in first or last. All that matters is that I’m a 37 year-old mother of 2 and I’m out there running 10 miles. I know this and yet what really bothers me isn’t coming in last (although just for the record I was 41st out of what ended up being 49 finishers, thank you very much.) What bothers me is the fact that I totally believed I would be last. That’s realism; that’s pessimism. Not to over-do the story book theme, but once upon a time I would have insanely believed that I could have come in first and if I hadn’t I would have believed that the other 40 runners must have just had their best day ever! And if my Dad happened to be at the race, he would have convinced me that the race was in some way rigged. I mean that’s the only way his daughter isn’t going to win the race. And you know what, I would have believed him. And you know what else? I miss that spirit of optimism. I know, though, that I can catch it again. Beyond blessed are those moment watching Coulter and Emma Claire with their trusting spirits and child-like faith (the kind of faith that we are all called to have,) and I never again want to squish a baby bird’s life out of my son’s imagination.
Last summer I judged the Miss Arkansas Pageant, a pre-lim to Miss America and one of the young ladies in her interview made a comment that really stuck with me. She said, “Ma’am, I don’t care if my glass is half empty or half full. I’m just so happy to have a glass.” Sure, some days my glass seems more full than others, like the days that I remember ALL of Emma Claire’s clothes and the days where I believe I can run to the moon and back, but even for those less-than-full days, (like when some 20 year-old on her way to Miss America calls you "Ma'am") I am overflowing with gratitude and am just so happy to have a glass! Cheers!
On this particular Sunday, though, we were racing down the stairs when Coulter stopped with a jerk and said, “Mom! Look! It’s a robin’s egg.” I looked down and there lay a cracked (almost crushed) blue robin’s egg and my heart sank. “Oh Coulter, how sad.” “Ma-aaahmm,” Coulter replied with a voice oozing frustration, “It’s not sad. The baby bird cracked out and flew away. That’s what they’re supposed to do” Well, duh! Of course that’s what happened. Or at least that’s a much nicer ending to the story! When had I become such a realist? And what is a realist, anyway? It’s just a nice word for pessimist.
Baby bird, aside, I’ve always been an optimistic person and I come by it quite naturally. My parents were always glass half-full people. Come to think of it, they are more like glass totally full. Someone has cancer? It’s the “good” kind. I mean if you’re going to have cancer this is the kind you want. Someone lost their job? It’s a victory; now they can go out and have the job they really want. Someone gets busted for drugs? Praise the Lord, now maybe he will have a chance to turn his life around. This is the kind of optimism that I grew up with; an optimism grounded in faith and Biblical truths.
Once upon a time I’m sure that I, too, would have seen a baby bird flying around. Where was my child-like faith and heart bursting with optimism? My new pessimistic outlook came back to haunt me again last weekend at the starting line of a 10 mile run. At the time I signed up it seemed like a great idea. On the morning of the run, however, it seemed like a hazy drug-induced idea. What was I thinking? I hadn’t run more than 5 or 6 miles for the past 3 years and now all of a sudden I think I’m going to pull a 10? To further shake my confidence, there was a spandex-clad, perfectly fit woman next to me (seriously, how can anyone be that tan the 1st weekend in June. This is South Dakota!) Anyway, she mentioned that there were only 55 people signed up to run. Math might not be a strong area for me, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out those are some pretty high odds for coming in last. Usually there are hundreds and thousands of runners at these races and I enjoy the anonymity of it all. Well, not today. Today I knew several people; people from work, people from church; fast people, fit people, tan and beautiful people and I all I could think about was coming in last.
I was so consumed with coming in last that at mile 3 ½ I began to count the runners on their way back. 30, 32, 45…. Yep, I’m gonna be last. Now, in my heart, I know it doesn’t matter whether I came in first or last. All that matters is that I’m a 37 year-old mother of 2 and I’m out there running 10 miles. I know this and yet what really bothers me isn’t coming in last (although just for the record I was 41st out of what ended up being 49 finishers, thank you very much.) What bothers me is the fact that I totally believed I would be last. That’s realism; that’s pessimism. Not to over-do the story book theme, but once upon a time I would have insanely believed that I could have come in first and if I hadn’t I would have believed that the other 40 runners must have just had their best day ever! And if my Dad happened to be at the race, he would have convinced me that the race was in some way rigged. I mean that’s the only way his daughter isn’t going to win the race. And you know what, I would have believed him. And you know what else? I miss that spirit of optimism. I know, though, that I can catch it again. Beyond blessed are those moment watching Coulter and Emma Claire with their trusting spirits and child-like faith (the kind of faith that we are all called to have,) and I never again want to squish a baby bird’s life out of my son’s imagination.
Last summer I judged the Miss Arkansas Pageant, a pre-lim to Miss America and one of the young ladies in her interview made a comment that really stuck with me. She said, “Ma’am, I don’t care if my glass is half empty or half full. I’m just so happy to have a glass.” Sure, some days my glass seems more full than others, like the days that I remember ALL of Emma Claire’s clothes and the days where I believe I can run to the moon and back, but even for those less-than-full days, (like when some 20 year-old on her way to Miss America calls you "Ma'am") I am overflowing with gratitude and am just so happy to have a glass! Cheers!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Time to Brush Your Teeth!
What an exciting week this has been! After basically non-stop birthday celebrations for the past 2 weeks, Coulter started his very first week at big-boy day camp. He’s out the door by 7:30, backpack in hand wearing whatever “cool” shirt is deemed necessary for the day and his KEENS which, according to him, are water-proof, creek-proof and swamp-proof. This was very important to him, you know, because we spend so much time in swamps! So important, in fact, that he asked the salesperson to verify all the different levels of “proofs!” As a camper, he’s gone from 4 year old preschooler to 10 year old Kindergartner in a matter of a few short days. In a way, this new morning routine feels a little like Kindergarten dress rehearsal. To be sure, our lazy mornings at home are coming to an end. So far, everything is going well except for the occasional drama over clothing and for the almost impossible task of remembering to brush our teeth.
This is a really hard thing for me to understand because the first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth. Well, it’s the first thing I do after realizing that pleading, “Please go back to sleep. It’s still night-night time!” isn’t going to work. It didn’t work yesterday. It didn’t work today and it’s not going to work tomorrow. I’m guessing that most of you wait until after you’ve had breakfast to brush your teeth but I recently read that bacteria starts growing right….oh, never mind. You do it your way and I’ll do it mine.
Now, not to totally change the subject, but brushing my teeth, in a very weird way, actually reminds me of 9/11. As the events were unfolding that morning, we decided it was best for the children and their families to stick with the routine of classes. We were just about to sing hello when my friend Nancy came in with her son, Cole. Horrified by the morning’s tragedies and shell-shocked like the rest of us, she announced to everyone that she had forgotten to brush her teeth. Here we are on this day of horror; this day of unspeakable tragedy and fear and all I can think about is, “Oh My Gosh! How could someone forget to brush their teeth?” So now, when people talk about where they were or what they were doing on that horrific day, I remember simply that my brother was in NYC and we hadn’t heard from him, and I remember that Cole’s mother forgot to brush her teeth.
O.K., sorry for the little diversion; now back to Coulter. Even though he’s acting 10, he is in fact 5 and we think that he’s old enough to take on more responsibilities in the morning. This has been met with mixed results:
“Coulter! Time to brush your teeth, please.”
“O.K., Mom”
No water and no brushing. Hmmmm….. I go to his room to check on him and I find him going through his underwear tub (we have tubs, not drawers; don’t’ ask!) contemplating the differences between boxers and tighty-whiteys.
“Coulter, honey, sweet pie, have you brushed your teeth yet?”
“Oh, man, I forgot. Right on it!”
He makes his way to the bathroom. Still no water; no brushing. I don’t want to be a helicopter mom, but teeth are kind of important so I check again. This time, I find him sitting on the counter with all of his toothbrushes and every tub of paste lined up and engaged in some kind of intergalactic shoot out with space aliens.
By now I’m starting to become a little dis-regulated (which is just my fun therapy word for totally freaking out!”) “Coulter, PLEASE brush your teeth! NOW!” To which he replies, “Oh sure thing, Mom, I just forgot.”
As a mom, I don’t understand how this can be so hard and to be honest, it scares me a little to think about leaving the house every morning at 7:30. We seriously aren’t going to have time for world issues like, “Are these real boxers?” And will Colgate Watermelon be able to save planet Earth.
Now, sorry for yet another diversion in our story, but last week I was out for a run and I was thinking about Coulter’s teeth and sun block and Kindergarten and basically any issue that I fear falling short and I noticed a couple up ahead of me, probably in their mid-50’s, pushing a baby stroller. Could be parents in today’s world, I thought, or maybe grandparents. No way to be sure. Then I saw the woman lovingly reach into the stroller and pull out her baby. Only, it wasn’t a baby; it was a dog. Now this is probably completely normal. People probably walk their dogs in baby strollers all the time and I’m just completely out of the loop but I was seriously taken aback and it actually sent me down a whole other train of thought about a Dateline episode that featured women, who, unable to have children, collected these very expensive dolls that looked completely life-like. They would dress them, feed them, change them and yes even stroll around town pretending that they were real. I became so distracted by the dog and the visions of baby dolls that I veered onto a different trail and somehow managed to get lost on a simple out and back run. All of a sudden I emerged from this tree lined trail to see a busy street and a huge CONOCO sign. It might as well have said, “Gotcha!” I felt in that moment that God served up a small dose of humility for dear ‘ol Mom. Because while I’d like to blame Coulter’s seemingly inability to walk the 10 steps from the breakfast table to the bathroom without becoming totally distracted by the imaginative world in his head on the “boys will be boys” theory, it is much more likely a case of “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Humbling, indeed and yet I’m grateful for the reminder.
Humility has to be a part of parenting. Remembering, that while we are doing our best; while we are trying to be a reflection of God’s love to our children, we are not, or at least I’m not, anywhere close to perfect and we shouldn’t expect them to be either. Respecting our children and their imaginations, their creations, and their own unique timelines has to be part of the deal.
Sunday, we will have yet another birthday celebration for Coulter. None of the gifts that he receives, though, can compare with the gift of being his Mother and when I reflect on the blessing of his life I give thanks to God for the special knowledge He gives all parents….the knowledge and the absolute certainty that this child, your child on loan from God is by far the most intelligent, the most creative, the most talented and the most precious young boy to walk this earth (even if he does have smelly breath!)
This is a really hard thing for me to understand because the first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth. Well, it’s the first thing I do after realizing that pleading, “Please go back to sleep. It’s still night-night time!” isn’t going to work. It didn’t work yesterday. It didn’t work today and it’s not going to work tomorrow. I’m guessing that most of you wait until after you’ve had breakfast to brush your teeth but I recently read that bacteria starts growing right….oh, never mind. You do it your way and I’ll do it mine.
Now, not to totally change the subject, but brushing my teeth, in a very weird way, actually reminds me of 9/11. As the events were unfolding that morning, we decided it was best for the children and their families to stick with the routine of classes. We were just about to sing hello when my friend Nancy came in with her son, Cole. Horrified by the morning’s tragedies and shell-shocked like the rest of us, she announced to everyone that she had forgotten to brush her teeth. Here we are on this day of horror; this day of unspeakable tragedy and fear and all I can think about is, “Oh My Gosh! How could someone forget to brush their teeth?” So now, when people talk about where they were or what they were doing on that horrific day, I remember simply that my brother was in NYC and we hadn’t heard from him, and I remember that Cole’s mother forgot to brush her teeth.
O.K., sorry for the little diversion; now back to Coulter. Even though he’s acting 10, he is in fact 5 and we think that he’s old enough to take on more responsibilities in the morning. This has been met with mixed results:
“Coulter! Time to brush your teeth, please.”
“O.K., Mom”
No water and no brushing. Hmmmm….. I go to his room to check on him and I find him going through his underwear tub (we have tubs, not drawers; don’t’ ask!) contemplating the differences between boxers and tighty-whiteys.
“Coulter, honey, sweet pie, have you brushed your teeth yet?”
“Oh, man, I forgot. Right on it!”
He makes his way to the bathroom. Still no water; no brushing. I don’t want to be a helicopter mom, but teeth are kind of important so I check again. This time, I find him sitting on the counter with all of his toothbrushes and every tub of paste lined up and engaged in some kind of intergalactic shoot out with space aliens.
By now I’m starting to become a little dis-regulated (which is just my fun therapy word for totally freaking out!”) “Coulter, PLEASE brush your teeth! NOW!” To which he replies, “Oh sure thing, Mom, I just forgot.”
As a mom, I don’t understand how this can be so hard and to be honest, it scares me a little to think about leaving the house every morning at 7:30. We seriously aren’t going to have time for world issues like, “Are these real boxers?” And will Colgate Watermelon be able to save planet Earth.
Now, sorry for yet another diversion in our story, but last week I was out for a run and I was thinking about Coulter’s teeth and sun block and Kindergarten and basically any issue that I fear falling short and I noticed a couple up ahead of me, probably in their mid-50’s, pushing a baby stroller. Could be parents in today’s world, I thought, or maybe grandparents. No way to be sure. Then I saw the woman lovingly reach into the stroller and pull out her baby. Only, it wasn’t a baby; it was a dog. Now this is probably completely normal. People probably walk their dogs in baby strollers all the time and I’m just completely out of the loop but I was seriously taken aback and it actually sent me down a whole other train of thought about a Dateline episode that featured women, who, unable to have children, collected these very expensive dolls that looked completely life-like. They would dress them, feed them, change them and yes even stroll around town pretending that they were real. I became so distracted by the dog and the visions of baby dolls that I veered onto a different trail and somehow managed to get lost on a simple out and back run. All of a sudden I emerged from this tree lined trail to see a busy street and a huge CONOCO sign. It might as well have said, “Gotcha!” I felt in that moment that God served up a small dose of humility for dear ‘ol Mom. Because while I’d like to blame Coulter’s seemingly inability to walk the 10 steps from the breakfast table to the bathroom without becoming totally distracted by the imaginative world in his head on the “boys will be boys” theory, it is much more likely a case of “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Humbling, indeed and yet I’m grateful for the reminder.
Humility has to be a part of parenting. Remembering, that while we are doing our best; while we are trying to be a reflection of God’s love to our children, we are not, or at least I’m not, anywhere close to perfect and we shouldn’t expect them to be either. Respecting our children and their imaginations, their creations, and their own unique timelines has to be part of the deal.
Sunday, we will have yet another birthday celebration for Coulter. None of the gifts that he receives, though, can compare with the gift of being his Mother and when I reflect on the blessing of his life I give thanks to God for the special knowledge He gives all parents….the knowledge and the absolute certainty that this child, your child on loan from God is by far the most intelligent, the most creative, the most talented and the most precious young boy to walk this earth (even if he does have smelly breath!)
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